


Our Silver Lining

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Bad News, Brotherly Love, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dysfunctional Family, Feels and Hurt/Comfort, Genocide, Major Character Injury, Mid-War, Multi, Oaths & Vows, Panic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Returning Home, Shock, Soul Bond, Surprises, Survivor Guilt, Twins, Vengeful Bluestreak, Walk Into A Bar, Worry, devastation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3856735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“A city has come under siege. You and I are going to mount a defense with Special Ops. if it’s needed…or we’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A derisive laugh and shake of the helm. “And why would I—?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s Praxus.”<em></em></em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Silver Lining

**Author's Note:**

> Cybertronian Time Measurements:  
> Klik - 1 Second  
> Quintun - 1 Week

Praxus…under siege…

Praxus under siege…

Praxus under siege.

The words continued to clang in Prowl’s processor as he strode briskly down the hall, the data pad bearing the grim news lodged under his arm. Other Autobots buzzed around him, flattening themselves against the wall as they recognized him and how this latest news was directly connected to him. It would have been amusing had the circumstances _not_ been connected so directly.

“Prowl!”

The SIC’s feet skidded a little as he jerked to a halt like an animal trapped by a leash.

“I just heard,” Optimus declared as he approached. “I’m sending Special Ops.”

“Yes, I know,” Prowl concurred. “I was going to meet them there.” Realizing how biased that must sound, Prowl ducked his helm slightly. “If that’s permissible with you, sir.”

“‘Permissible’?” Worry was leaking into the Prime’s tone and expression now. “‘ _Permissible’_? It’s your home city, Prowl. You know it like none other; I _insist_ you go. Defend it.”

Prowl tucked away his surprise in exchange for gratitude. “Th-Thank you, sir.” He shuttered his optics momentarily, coaxing his voice back into steadiness as he said, “There are calls I have to make.”

Precious time was used in those precious calls. Once reassured that most of his closer friends had moved out of the city long before this point, Prowl made to stand from his desk and then hesitated. There was one call he had refrained from making. For a long moment he stared at the comm. unit and then shook his helm minutely. He’d best make the stop in person.

—

Life Source Tavern was just as dimly lit as usual, filled with the acrid scent given off by too much high-grade energon in one location. Prowl barely noticed it or the bad lighting, knowing exactly where to go for the mech he sought.

“You’re a terrible liar,” a particular voice caught his attention. “That said, I’ll call your bluff.”

Prowl began pushing through the crowd toward the voice, stopping when a femme edged into his path, smirking. “Can I get you something, good-looking?” she purred, her fine engine the only way Prowl could hear her over the audial-ringing abomination dubbed music.

“Yes, in fact you can,” Prowl told her stiffly. “You can get me one of the mechs at the gambling table.”

The femme’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really? If that’s really what you want, which one?” Turning, she gestured to the larger mech present. “He’d probably be open to splitting his profits.”

“He’s not going to win,” Prowl muttered. “Not against _that_ opponent. Excuse me.” Squeezing past her, Prowl finally reached the table and came up behind his objective.

The large mech the femme had pointed out opened his mouth, but Prowl shook his helm solemnly and warned him with a brief hand signal known to ‘his kind’. The mech’s optics opened too and he scrambled to get out of his seat, hollering, “You never told me youse was with the Chop Shops!”

“What?” Prowl’s objective gasped as his opponent took off. “Hey, c’mon! I was just about to win!” Finally the red, white, and blue mech had the idea to look over his shoulder. Smiling widely, he greeted, “Oh…Hey, cousin! Come to arrest me?”

Bending down by his audial, Prowl hissed, “You are an Autobot, one who is supposed to uphold the law. If you were doing your job correctly, you would have shot half of the tenants of this establishment—the Decepticons you’ve missed. But I’m not here to scold you.”

“Oh? Cos it’s really sounding that way,” his cousin snarked.

“A city has come under siege. You and I are going to mount a defense with Special Ops. if it’s needed…or we’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”

A derisive laugh and shake of the helm. “And why would I—?”

Gripping his shoulder in a near crushing hand, Prowl spat, “It’s Praxus, Smokescreen.”

Like a flipped switch, Smokescreen’s smile vanished and his voice bore no hint of smugness as he intoned faintly, “It’s…what?”

“It’s _Praxus_ , Smokescreen!” Prowl repeated, louder than before, but Smokescreen was already scrambling out of his seat before Prowl could finish.

“Let’s go. Hurry, Prowl!”

—

The pod holding the Special Ops. Team, Prowl, and Smokescreen couldn’t have gone any slower in the latter two’s opinion. When it finally landed near the outskirts of the city, Smokescreen sprang from his seat and openly declared, “Would’ve been faster if we _drove_.”

“Hey, that was as fast as it would go,” Jazz protested. “I’m no stranger to urgency, my mech!”

“Then let’s make haste,” Prowl urged, pulling Jazz out of the pilot’s seat and steering him toward the door.

As soon as they emerged from the pod, Prowl nearly dropped his weapon. The Assembly Building was wreathed in flame, smoke billowing from the highest spires—at least, the ones that hadn’t collapsed.

“Primus preserve them,” Mirage whispered somewhere off to Prowl’s left. The words set Prowl into motion, transforming and racing for the entrance to the city with Smokescreen riding his aft bumper.

The guards at the front were heaps of ash, soaking in the energon on the surrounding earth. Prowl didn’t dare study the remains for too long, standing and racing into the nearest building. There it was impossible to miss the carnage, but Prowl tried to focus on clearing the building of any Con presence.

Here was Overclutch’s sweet shop. The retired warrior adored sparklings, Prowl remembered.

_“It’s their innocence,” Overclutch explained when Prowl inquired. “They are the sparks of what our world is going to become. So, my little officer…would you like a sweet?”_

_Prowl laughed quietly at the sparklinghood nickname. “Not so little anymore, my friend. And…no, thank you.”_

_“Ah, come now,” Overclutch chided, seizing a particular jar and rattling it invitingly. “I remember you always had a free hand for a rust stick or two.”_

_“Very well,” Prowl relented with feigned reluctance, withdrawing three of the sticks, to Overclutch’s approval_.

Prowl couldn’t bite back a gasp when he finally picked out graying metal among the ash dusting the floor. Pursing his lips, Prowl inched forward, his spark twisting when he found what he had feared. Pride and sorrow lodged in his chest when he saw the smoking rifle held close to the gaping holes in Overclutch’s chest. He’d not gone down without a fight.

Venting shakily, Prowl backed away and moved to the next building, finding much of the same. He found it in the next building and the next and the next, only guessing what could lie underneath the buildings that lay in heaps. Again his spark wrenched when he found the Sparkling Center levelled. Smokescreen was already there, crouching in the debris, cradling a tiny form that fit in his hands.

“Barely a quintun,” he croaked when he sensed Prowl’s presence, doorwings drooping. “Barely a quintun old and already it’s graying.”

The ring of metal brought Prowl reeling to alert, snapping his rifle into position. Smokescreen couldn’t seem to stir, so Prowl moved closer, ready to defend him.

Jazz emerged from around the corner, his face grim as Prowl had seen it only in the most tragic of instances. If he thought hard, the only time Prowl could recall seeing Jazz look worse had been when his sparkmate was found.

“I have the team scourin’ for survivors where we can reach,” Jazz murmured. “But…” He trailed off, seeing what Smokescreen held, and shuttered his optics in grief.

Prowl remained in position for a few kliks longer before it finally sank in that Jazz had been the source of the sound and he could lower his weapon. He did so very slowly, let it dangle from the strap around his neck.

“Look in the Helix Gardens,” he instructed numbly. “Many Praxians like to— _liked_ to…gather there.”

Nodding, Jazz took his leave of them and Prowl turned his attention back to his cousin. Kneeling down next to him, Prowl placed a hand on his shoulder as he had earlier.

“Smokescreen. We need to join the search,” he whispered. Smokescreen’s mouth opened as though he were going to respond, but he didn’t. Refusing to go where his optics wanted to, Prowl added, “There might be other sparklings to save, Smokescreen. Please, come with me.”

That idea seemed to bring Smokescreen out of his trance, though he didn’t speak a word as he placed the sparkling very carefully into a bank of ash against the building’s base.

By the time Prowl and Smokescreen reached the others at the Helix Gardens, their very basest hope had dwindled into cold dread of entering the next sector of the city, arriving on the new scene to find only the same picture. With each face he recognized, another knot tangled itself into Prowl’s spark until he was sure that he might purge or simply pass out from the pain. It was only when they reached the Gardens that Prowl’s physical agony was explained.

The Gardens had been treated by the Decepticons with even more hate than the rest of the city, if that was possible. Every delicate crystal, so finely carved and so lovingly placed, had been shattered. They crunched shrilly underneath the Autobots’ feet as they gingerly picked their way through the ruins. It was the only sound in the eerily reverent silence that had crept its way over the search team.

Prowl stood with Smokescreen at the half-collapsed entrance to the Gardens, his optics roaming restlessly even as the rest of his body felt utterly paralyzed. He kept one hand on his rifle and the other on his chest. Smokescreen had a hand on Prowl’s elbow, keeping him steady, but when Smokescreen seemed to focus on a particular spot, the hand fell away. Prowl glanced at his cousin and his spark thrashed yet once more when he saw sudden terror radiating over Smokescreen’s entire frame.

“No. No, no, no, no, _no!_ ” Smokescreen bolted, practically hurling mechs out of his way and skidding onto his knees, pawing desperately at what looked to Prowl like just another ashen form. Then, as Smokescreen wiped at the fallen mech’s plating, Prowl blinked, his optics recalibrated, and he saw that the armor remained gray underneath the layer of dust. It wasn’t the gray of death, though—more silvered.

Bluestreak.

Prowl would never know when or how he made it across the Gardens, but the next thing he knew he was plunging his hands into the searing hot debris, tearing away what had taken his brother down. As soon as it was cleared, Prowl dragged Bluestreak into his arms, roving over the damage.

“Prowl,” Smokescreen choked out. “Please, _please_ tell me he’s…”

Prowl had no words to give, shuttering his optics against coolant seeping from their edges. After an indeterminable amount of time, he did speak in the weakest of undertones, but it wasn’t to Smokescreen.

“Don’t you dare. My spark, I would have felt it—Don’t you dare—” Pressing his chevron to his twin’s, he breathed, “You’re going to be okay. I know you are. You’re my blue sky, my silver lining. Nothing’s going to happen to you, not while I’m here. I may have failed with them; not with you. You’re going to live, Bluestreak.” His voice broke on the name, but it wasn’t in grief. No, a tingle in his deeper chest chambers was loosening the knots there, at the same time becoming sharper, more clear-cut, more _alive_.

Ashes and energon graced Prowl’s features as Bluestreak coughed violently, ventilations shallow and rattling as he sank back against Prowl’s supporting arms.

Snapping himself straight like a whip, Smokescreen cried, “ _Primus!_ Get me a medic, someone!”

—

Prowl startled from fitful recharge when his shoulders were shaken. “Just heard from Ratchet,” Smokescreen hissed. “He’s awake!”

Prowl wobbled when he got to his feet, sensing the strong presence of his twin on the other side of their bond. Something seemed…off about it, but that could only be expected. Bluestreak might be wondering what had happened to put him here in the Autobot base, specifically in the infirmary.

When he and Smokescreen entered through the med bay doors, though, Prowl realized in about a klik and a half that Bluestreak was fully aware of the reason. His brother wasn’t giving off any of the natural signs of panic or shock. Instead he was utterly motionless, noiseless, and expressionless even as his face was streaked with tears.

Prowl moved into his line of vision, leaning down and whispering the name. When that received no reaction, he glanced at Ratchet, threw pride in the presence of another officer to Unicron and climbed onto the berth, pulling Bluestreak against him. Smokescreen sat at the end of the berth, maintaining both distance and closeness at once.

Ratchet stood helplessly off to the side, unsure of how to react to this unusual scene. At last he sighed quietly, laid down his tools and took his leave. Prowl nodded in wordless gratitude and Ratchet returned the gesture as the doors closed behind him.

“Blue?” Smokescreen called timidly. “Are you…can you…?”

Bluestreak’s optics shifted languidly to Smokescreen’s face and finally, _finally_ he spoke. “I am and I can, Smokes,” he whispered, tugging against Prowl’s embrace to wipe at his tears. “I just wish that others were and could, y’know, because I-I-I don’t want to think I’m the last of Praxus. I can’t be; the others have to be in another medical bay somewhere on this base. I’ve never been here, so there’s probably another med bay, right? Is that where they are? Never mind. As soon as Ratchet clears me, I’ll go and see them. Maybe you can let me skip a few sheets of paperwork, right, Prowl? You’d do that for me, right? You’d do that for me, because you’re second-in-command here, at least that’s what I thought you said in your letters. Yeah, I’ll go and visit the others as soon as I can. I don’t want to be alone when I don’t have to be.”

Prowl blinked rapidly, trying to process this one-sided conversation that he hadn’t been expecting. Bluestreak had always loved a good conversation, but this was…rambling. Smokescreen seemed taken aback as well, but Bluestreak didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“So do you want to show me around this base, introduce me to your fellows? I don’t think it’s a big possibility to go back to my house because of the—well, y’know, and I’m sure you two can get into all the top-secret places here, right? I need to get up and move around, get some fresh air, or this blank, boring room is just gonna send me to the Well—” He drew in his vents sharply around the word, letting out a low, soft keen of anguish.

 _This_ was what Prowl recognized of his brother in pain. Tightening his arms around Bluestreak’s chest, he opened his spark, letting it thrum against Bluestreak’s trembling doorwings. Bluestreak couldn’t help but respond, his burden spilling through their bond. Prowl clenched his teeth against the weight of it as it crashed into him and balanced out between them.

“I’m the last,” Bluestreak gasped. “I…don’t…have anyone left.”

“You’ve got us,” Smokescreen countered fiercely, pressing Bluestreak’s hands between his own. “You’ve _always_ got us.”

Prowl murmured his agreement and Bluestreak relaxed, leaning his helm against Prowl’s chest.

“Yes,” the younger twin decided, his softer tone not detracting from his words: “And I have my revenge too. Prowl, I don’t want or need a ceremony. Swear me in right here, right now. I want to be an Autobot.”

After a moment of grim hush that would somehow become precious in memory, Prowl swallowed something tangling his throat cables and began explaining how freedom was the right of every sentient being. The words had a different meaning this time—something sincere yet so much more primal than Prowl had believed. Freedom. Freedom to do as one wanted or needed.

If revenge would return a blue sky and relight his silver lining, so be it.


End file.
